On Your Way OutI had a ticket for tonight's On Your Toes at London's Festival Hall. Normally, this would mean that tomorrow I'd be telling you about the breath-takingly sexy choreography, the wonderful Rodgers & Hammerstein songs, and what I'd like Irek Mukhamedov to do to me. (However, not wishing to disappoint, I'd still get in a sneak mention of the ten-quid season next door at the National.)

Only I didn't go. Cancelled at the last moment, I did: just too tired and I simply couldn't be arsed. I was meant to meet a couple of mates there too, meaning that later we'd cliché over to luvvie canteen Joe Allen for burgers, Manhattans, and chocolate fudge cake, before stumbling home long after the milkman's been on his way. Sorry, my dears, but these (school) days this Stranger needs his beauty sleep.

Hmm... First, putting the blinds up last Saturday… Then, yesterday, turning my nose up at that showbizzy party… And now this. You know, I fear my C.Q. (Camp Quotient) is descending to a dangerously low level. Reckon it needs a top-up.